


Marked

by PeachesPoison



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Double Entendre, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachesPoison/pseuds/PeachesPoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot.  Enjolras begs for something Grantaire can give him.  </p><p>“I can’t believe you want me to desecrate that body,” Grantaire said and shook his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

Grantaire and Enjolras were the only people in Grantaire’s apartment. The television was on, unwatched, in the living room. The men stood facing each other across the dinner table in the kitchen. 

“Are you positive this is what you want?” Grantaire asked Enjolras.

“Have you ever known me to make decisions lightly?” Enjolras responded. He nervously wiped his clammy palms on his jeans. 

Grantaire smirked and replied, “Of course not, but this isn’t a light decision to make. This is quite irreversible.”

“I know that,” The blonde sharply retaliated. “Every step here was more difficult than the last. But I’ve wanted this for far too long, and I will not put it off any longer.” He spoke the truth. For quite a while, Enjolras had weighed the desire in his mind. He had even gone as far as to scribble pro and con lists that were quickly crumpled and thrown away. 

Laughing, Grantaire teased, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you scared before.” He marched to the refrigerator and retrieved two bottles of beer. He walked back to the table, and sat. 

“You cannot numb yourself with alcohol before this,” Enjolras protested. He grabbed a bottle in each hand, his eyes pleading for an explanation. Grantaire stood and rolled his eyes at his friend.

“Like I haven’t before? Like I don’t on a regular basis?” He teased again. Before Enjolras could stop him, Grantaire swiftly moved his hands and unbuttoned the first two buttons of Enjolras’ dark red shirt. “Like I don’t do an amazing job anyway?” 

Enjolras stepped backwards. “I swear you want to make this as difficult for me as possible.”

Grantaire snatched one of the bottles and opened it before Enjolras could protest. “I believe you are the one making this more complicated than it has to be. You can take your shirt off yourself, you know, but I can continue if you’d like.”

“Fuck off,” Enjolras scowled at his friend. Grantaire just laughed, and swigged his beer while Enjolras hastily removed his shirt and his undershirt. He looked around anxiously, as though he were about to get caught doing something immoral. To their peers, Enjolras was widely regarded as more than just handsome; charismatic and passionate were frequently uttered when others described him. 

“I can’t believe you want me to desecrate that body,” Grantaire said and shook his head. 

“If we can’t get this over with soon, I can find someone else,” Enjolras threatened. Grantaire knew this was true, and he didn’t doubt the warning. His face crumpled apologetically, but before he could say anything, Enjolras softened and continued, “I asked you because I trust you. Please just do this for me.”

Grantaire now was also overcome with nerves. His breathing quickened. “Fine. Sit.” Enjolras obediently sat in one of the straight backed wooden chairs, and looked expectantly up at Grantaire. He shook his head and said, “Obviously, you’re going to need to face the other way. You sure you don’t need this beer for the nerves?” 

Enjolras, clearly embarrassed, blushed and rose from the chair. He turned and straddled the chair this time. “No, I want to feel this how it is meant to be felt.” 

“You are the only person I’ve heard express that sentiment. You truly are a glutton for pain, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. The blonde sighed, and had no comeback. “I’ll be right back.”

Grantaire left the kitchen and went to retrieve the things he would need. Enjolras’ nerves were about shot. He hoped the anticipation would be worse than the actual act, but there was no way of knowing. Of course he had heard descriptions from others, but descriptions mean little when one has no reference level of the subject. 

He closed his eyes and nervously hummed to himself. He leaned his bare chest against the chair’s back and wrapped his arms around the top of it, figuring he had better get used to that position.  
Grantaire reappeared after what seemed like an eternity, and laid his arsenal on the table. He pulled the other chair across the floor and sat so that he was facing Enjolras’ back. 

“This is going to be cold,” he warned. Enjolras tensed as he heard what his friend was doing. He prayed that the process wouldn’t take long. 

Grantaire opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and the scent permeated the room in seconds. He tore open a bag of cotton balls, and soaked one in the liquid. With his free hand, he brushed his messy jet black hair from his eyes, and then rested the hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. He noticed how warm the skin was. He steadied Enjolras with this hand, and with the other, he touched the wet cotton ball to the blonde’s shoulder. 

Enjolras jerked at the cold sensation but did not say anything. Grantaire dragged the cotton from side to side, slowly cleaning the skin. He worked from top to bottom. He intended to stop about halfway down Enjolras’ back, but it slipped his mind, and he methodically continued. Enjolras cleared his throat when Grantaire grazed the small of his back. 

“Sorry,” Grantaire said softly. He smiled as he noticed that Enjolras didn’t have a wisp of hair to shave in preparation; his torso was naturally smooth as marble. “You’ll pass out if you don’t breathe, Enjolras.”

Enjolras remained silent, but elected to fill his lungs as instructed. Grantaire set the cotton aside and picked up the stencil that he had prepared at work when nobody had noticed. He scooted his chair forward so that he was as close as he needed to be to perform his art. Enjolras breathed a little sharper as Grantaire’s breath grazed his recently-damp back. 

He picked up the thermal paper, and pressed it carefully to Enjolras’ back. He splayed his left hand over the edge, holding it in place, and used the fingers of his right hand to slowly smooth the paper into place. Grantaire’s fingertips were slow and teasing, but Enjolras’ back was firm and unyielding under his touch. 

Grantaire slowly peeled the paper away, staining Enjolras’ porcelain skin with the purplish lines. “You’re sure you want this?” He cautiously asked. 

Enjolras turned his head to the side, trying to catch Grantaire’s blue eyes with his own. “Do not ask again. Your prolonging of the situation is torture enough!”

Grantaire doubted it was torture, but he obliged, “As you insist.” He filled ink caps until he had an array of red, black, yellow, blue and more at his disposal. He opened a tube of ointment, and smeared a dot of it over the transfer lines on the perfect back he was about to permanently mar. He polished off the second bottle of beer. 

Without warning, the tattoo gun roared to life in Grantaire’s right hand. His expression became more serious and more focused than it was at any other time than when he was lost in his art. He gripped Enjolras’ shoulder again with his left hand. He steadily brought the gun to his friend’s back to make the first line. 

The loud buzz of the machine distracted Enjolras, for he had never heard one before, but the distraction was quickly replaced with shock. For a few minutes, he couldn't think of anything but the fact that it felt like Grantaire was drawing on him with a razor blade. 

Grantaire remembered his first time under the gun, and he felt an urge to comfort his friend. He gently squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder with his left hand, and dragged his fingers down his back to rest in a stabilizing position further down. The sensation made Enjolras shudder, but he couldn’t quite place why.

“I feel badly for hurting you,” Grantaire murmured repentantly.

Enjolras exhaled and replied, “It doesn’t really hurt. I’m alright.”

Grantaire snorted. “You’re a fucking liar.” 

“Fine,” he snapped. “Rather, I can handle it.”

For the next two hours, the pair sat in near silence, their thoughts drowned out by the abrasive buzz of the tattoo gun and their solitude. Grantaire hardly thought his trade to be a glamorous one, but he was proud of the art that was growing from his hands, his mind. 

Enjolras mentally kicked himself for approving of the large, intricate design that would soon grace his back. He had heard that the pain subsided for some people after a little while, but unfortunately his body didn’t permit that relief. The artist first worked on the black outline. Enjolras tried to picture the parts that were taking shape on his back. He felt the loops that must have been shaping the laurel leaves, the curves that he supposed were giving life to the flames of the sun. 

A couple of times, Enjolras accidentally let a hiss escape his mouth and quickly bit his lip. Grantaire made no acknowledgement of what he supposed Enjolras thought of as weakness, though he saw the blonde curls shake with anguish every so often. This happened more frequently when he started on the color, going over some places several times. 

Once, when Grantaire paused and set the gun down on the table to swap colors, he let his momentarily free hand rest on the slight curve at Enjolras’ waist. Enjolras’ body responded instinctively, leaning into the pressure from his friend’s hand. Grantaire withdrew his hand as though he had been burned, and he busied himself with changing out the color. Both men flushed scarlet as they looked anywhere but at each other. 

Grantaire had no way of knowing the effect he had on Enjolras. It was agony for Enjolras to be touched like this so intimately. He, who had little interest in hookups and conquests, had now felt a compassionate touch for over two hours. His breathing was becoming ragged; not from the pain. Every time Grantaire shifted his hand the tiniest bit, every time his breath hit a new spot on his back, Enjolras felt…aroused. This was absurd considering there was a needle injecting ink into his skin. 

Still, his body ruled his mind for once.

“Alright Enj, you’re done!” Grantaire said, as he wiped the excess blood and ink away with a cloth. He put a thick ointment on the skin. Enjolras squirmed under his touch. “Don’t move yet,” he warned. His friend groaned in what he assumed was frustration. Grantaire opened a few packages of gauze and covered the freshly tattooed expanse of skin, holding the gauze in place with medical tape. He gently grabbed his friend by the shoulders, nudging him to turn so they were face to face.

Grantaire saw the slightest glisten of blood where Enjolras had bitten his lower lip open. 

“Your lip is bleeding,” he said simply, as Enjolras met his eyes. “Leave the bandage on for an hour or so, and then you can take it off.”

“Maybe you can take it off for me,” challenged Enjolras. He took Grantaire’s face in his hands, and crashed his lips into the artist’s as he pushed him into the couch. 

Grantaire was taken completely off guard. Of course, during the tattoo session, he had felt their undeniable chemistry. But it had been that way for years. He knew better than to make the first move and he had long since abandoned the idea that Enjolras would take that step. But now…Enjolras was tugging Grantaire’s soft green t-shirt over his head. He bit Grantaire’s collar bone, leaving a bruise for sure. Grantaire bucked under him as Enjolras sucked on his neck and moved back up to his lips. 

The men fumbled with each other’s belts and pants, awkwardly exposing themselves in a flurry of clothing. Grantaire laid on the couch, pinned helplessly under Enjolras’ strong hips as their last bits of clothing were pushed to the floor. 

For the first time all night, Enjolras grinned. He wet two fingers in his mouth, and plunged them into Grantaire, who arched under his touch. 

“Enj, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted you,” he moaned. 

“To be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ve wanted you,” Enjolras countered.  
“But, here we are.”

Enjolras withdrew his fingers. “Here we are.” 

Grantaire grabbed Enjolras and directed him to his entrance. Enjolras obeyed, thrusting with no hesitation. They kissed, a sloppy mess of limbs and affection. After a few minutes Enjolras was able to keep up a rhythm. He came rather quickly, spilling into Grantaire, who seemed to get off on Enjolras’ pleasure. 

When they both stopped writhing, Enjolras laughed, one of the few times Grantaire saw him do so. It was unusual for Grantaire to see his stable and serious friend lose control.  
Grantaire slid his hands up, moving them from Enjolras’ waist to his back, to draw him in closer. Enjolras winced when Grantaire’s hands made contact with the bandages. Grantaire dropped his hands, and apologized profusely. 

“Enjolras, I am so sorry. To think I inflicted those wounds on you once, and antagonized them again…”

The blonde shut his friend up with a kiss. He suckled on Grantaire’s lower lip as he slowly, tantalizingly pulled away. Neither seemed to mind their sweaty, sticky bodies. 

“So…let’s check those bandages, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came to me as I got my fourth tattoo the other day. I purposely left a lot of details out, such as the exact design of E's tattoo. Some things are better left to the imagination.


End file.
